Oh yeah. The podcast.
I wipe the frown away as I put my car in park and grab my phone. I also bring my key chain with me—the one with the Mace on it. I’ve never had to use it, but I’m also rarely in situations where I’m alone with strangers.
My thumb brushes over the small canister as I slip it into my pocket, the cold metal comforting in its weight. I’m in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense trees that seem to swallow the road behind me, and even though I’m pretty sure I could take this guy down if things went south, I’m not sure anyone would hear me out here screaming for help.
Where’s the bear when you need him?
I know from the guy’s owner profile that his name is Louie Longsetter. What kind of name is Louie Longsetter? It sounds like a character from a sitcom, not the kind of person you’d expect to meet in the real world, with actual parents who said the name out loud and thought,Yes! That’s the one!
I don’t know that anyone named Louie Longsetter could even be dangerous.
But the way he’s standing like he’s been waiting for me longer than he should have been makes me second-guess that assumption.
I try to imagine a murderer named Louie Longsetter. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, but as a woman about to embark on weeks of isolation, the thought that he could be a threat sticks in my mind, unwanted and uncomfortable, like a burr I can’t shake off.
“Right on time!” he calls out, his voice too bright, too cheerful, as if I’m a guest of honor instead of just another renter. He jogs down the steps with an odd kind of buoyancy, heading toward me in a way that’s both eager and unsettling.
I hate that I find cheerful people immediately unlikable. I’m aware that’s a flaw within myself, but I have too many flaws to worry about polishing that one.
“Beauty of GPS,” I mutter, popping the trunk with a little too much urgency. Louie Longsetter may not seem like the name of a murderer, but I’m pretty sure there was a serial killer named Pichushkin. Anything’s possible.
Louie is beside me now, and he reaches into my trunk, his large hands wrapping around the handles of my suitcases. He yanks both out at once and lets them drop onto their sides on the gravel with a dull thud.
I wince, resisting the urge to snap at him. It’s RIMOWA luggage—new, sleek, expensive, and so far, free of any scratches or scuffs. I received it for my birthday a few months ago, and this is the first time I’ve been able to use it. I’ve been proud that it’s remained in pristine condition.
Until now.
I bend down quickly and lift one suitcase upright as I suppress a wave of irritation.
Louie, oblivious, mirrors my movements and sets the other suitcase upright, though I notice he’s dragging it behind him as he heads to the porch. The wheels scrape against the gravel like nails on a chalkboard, and I flinch inwardly, lifting mine off the ground to carry it.
“You’rethePetra Rose, right? The writer lady?” he asks, peering over his shoulder at me.
The writer lady?
I nod as I follow close behind, trying to plaster on a polite smile. “Yes, sir. Here to find inspiration. In the silence,” I add.
There are groceries in the back seat I still need to unload, but I’d rather him not know that. I just want him to leave. I needed him to leave before I showed up. That’s why rentals have door codes and self-check-in instructions.
We head up the porch steps, me holding my suitcase gingerly so the wheels don’t scrape up the steps, while Louie drags the other behind him like it’s an afterthought.
“I haven’t read any of your books,” he says, his voice almost apologetic, “but my wife said she thinks she’s read one.” He stops on the porch and fishes a ring of keys out of his pocket. “We did watch your movie, though. When I told my wife you were staying here, she made me promise to ask you about some character who was missing? Notsure what she’s referring to. You know, I was thinking on my walk over here about what would make a great movie,” he continues, handing me the keys.
Oh, God. Not this.
“My life,” he says, cocking an eyebrow like I should be impressed. “I’ve lived one hell of a crazy life. It could make you millions.”
I’m positive it wouldn’t.
“If you need any ideas ...” he starts again, clearly not getting the hint from my expression alone.
I cut him off, my smile stretched thin. “Fiction is the only thing I know how to write, unfortunately.”
I’ve lost count of how many times people have offered their life stories to me after finding out I’m a writer. Everyone is convinced they’re sitting on the next great American novel.
Maybe they are. I certainly haven’t been.
“But if you heard my story ...” he says.
